


Of mince pies, carols, and the anointing of unguents

by mywingsareonwheels



Series: What In Me Is Dark, Illumine [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Chronic Pain, Dominant Aziraphale, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Light D/s, Other, Pining, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale, brief discussion of potential rape, posting a yule fic in july sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 05:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19882558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywingsareonwheels/pseuds/mywingsareonwheels
Summary: "I didn't notice," said Aziraphale. "All these weeks you've been in pain, and I didn't notice.""I could have said something," said Crowley. "Anyway," he added, breezily, "why should you...?""Crowley," said Aziraphale, his eyes suddenly sad and sweet. "You're my best friend. I care about you."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks, this is my first fanfic for a number of years, and my first time posting to AO3. Blame the glory that is Aziraphale and Crowley, as well as so many of the writers on here! :-)
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley are clearly nonbinary/agendered, but they mostly present as male and use male pronouns. So I have here. Crowley makes my own nonbinary heart very happy. :-)
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you wish @mywingsareonwheels... 
> 
> I haven't used Archive Warnings, but here are two Content Warnings:-
> 
> 1\. Chronic pain/disability.  
> 2\. A paragraph's worth (in chapter 2) of a character obliquely worrying about a situation that would more than constitute rape/sexual abuse (the situation does not arise).

It was Anathema who noticed, and it was Newt who diagnosed the problem.

The party took place precisely four months and three days after the world did not end[1]. A little less since a being who looked very much like Aziraphale failed to burn in a pillar of hellfire, and since someone who resembled Crowley in nearly every particular took a rather nice bath in holy water, and asked the Archangel Michael for a towel. And exactly six weeks and two days since Crowley started occasionally prodding and rubbing at his neck and shoulders in an absent and increasingly frequent fashion that Aziraphale, seeing him most days as he now did, barely noticed. A gradual change can be so hard to spot in those to whom we are closest.

As a nod to the time of year, Aziraphale had filled the back room of the bookshop with greenery, roasted a turkey and potatoes and a luxurious chestnut-and-cranberry concoction, steamed vegetables with herbs, cooked up some excellent gravy, and baked a cake and some mince pies. Definitely not for Christmas, obviously. Yule, clearly. Nice, safe, undemandingly Pagan, uncomplicated, uncontroversial Yule.

Adam and the other Them brought crackers, insisted on pulling them before dinner, and argued amiably about who would take which hat. Dog got the pink one. Madame Tracy read out the cracker jokes in a series of interestingly varied voices, and Shadwell laughed far too loud and late at each of them. Madame Tracy and Shadwell themselves had brought a glorious steamed Yule pudding, and some mistletoe[2].

Anathema and Newt were a little late, but made up for it with three bottles of a delectably potent cherry wine and a sweet elderflower cordial for the children. 

Crowley was later still, but immediately got to work, laying the table, grinning charmingly at everyone, pacing about, served drinks, served canapés, never still, never sitting down until Aziraphale was ready to serve.

And it was then, as he sat down in an even more awkward and sprawling fashion than usual and started instinctively worrying at the back of his neck with one hand, that Anathema noticed.

She said nothing until after the main course (delicious), and the pudding (even better). They moved into the main part of the shop, where Aziraphale and Crowley had miracled between them a suitable number of sofas. Wine was opened, the children were allowed to explore the shop[3], the adults sprawled on the sofas, and the cake and mince pies would just have to wait until anybody had room for them.

And Anathema point-blank asked Crowley what he had done to his neck.

There was a slightly shocked pause. Aziraphale nearly dropped his wine glass, then put it down with infinitely care on the nearest side table.

Crowley squirmed, winced, then shifted position again. He looked irritated. But he also looked pained.

"I..." he began. He was clearly contemplating being rude and dismissive, but then winced again. "I honestly don't know," he said. "It's been playing hellfire with me over the last few weeks and I'm blessed if I know why. Neck aching, shoulders aching. Hands _tingling_ , would you fucking believe. And miracles on it don’t seem to work. Feels like some thorough human nonsense and frankly I'm fed up with it."

"You drove through an occult fire in a car that was disintegrating," said Newt. Then he looked abashed and awkward as everyone looked at him. Anathema squeezed his hand. "There would have been jolts, bumps, heavy enough to crash any other car. Even with... even with your own strength and Adam putting so much back as it was afterwards... We don't know how thoroughly..." he broke off.

"Newt's right," said Anathema. "There was so much happening on a number of planes. And..."

"... and you weren't paying much attention to your own well-being," said Aziraphale, quietly.

Another pause.

"Whiplash," said Newt. "The muscles clench to protect the spine, like the bonnet of a car crumpling to protect the occupants. I had it a couple of years ago. Any bump or knock I got afterwards made things worse, for ages. The muscles press against the spine. The tingling’s probably trapped nerves. I don’t suppose you can go to a doctor, but..."

"There’s a herbal salve I make," said Anathema. “Never travel without it, you can have the pot I have with me. You'll probably need someone else to apply it, but..."

"I can do that," said Aziraphale, still quietly. "Thank you, Anathema."

Crowley said nothing. His eyes were as always hidden behind their dark glasses. His face was turned away from them all, unreadable.

It was Shadwell who managed to change the subject[4], and within a few minutes the company were relaxed once more. Within half an hour the adults were positively rowdy, while the Them quietly read tomes of great learning and power[5]. An hour later the children (and Dog) joined the adults again in the dining room, cake and minced pies were served, and at last Crowley, of all people, insisted on leading everybody in a rousing selection of thoroughly Jesus-focused Christmas carols. Between them they managed a tolerable little SATB choir, with Brian and Anathema shining on the descants. The other Them took care of the rest of the soprano line, Aziraphale and Madame Tracy took alto, Crowley tenor, Shadwell and Newt more or less held together on bass. When midnight came, clear and peaceful, Mr and Mrs Young, arriving to collect the children (and Dog) and take them back to their B&B to sleep, stopped for a moment in solemn stillness to hear the angels sing.

At last, Anathema and Newt and Madame Tracy and Shadwell also left, with many smiles and goodbyes and greetings for the (unspecified) season. And Newt returned very briefly, and shyly handed a pot of something to Crowley.

"The salve," he said. "I still get some aches and pains at times and this does help. Ibuprofen gel’s good too, but this is... for me at least, it’s even better. Smells better too. Get, um. I'm sure Aziraphale would be happy to..." he disappeared, rather hastily.

Crowley sat down, stretched, winced, stretched again.

"I didn't notice," said Aziraphale. "All these weeks you've been in pain, and I didn't notice."

"I could have said something," said Crowley. "Anyway," he added, breezily, "why should you...?"

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, his eyes suddenly sad and sweet. "You're my best friend. I care about you."

Aziraphale sat in an armchair, not too far from Crowley's sofa. He miracled the superfluous seating away. They looked at each other. A second. Two. Then Crowley turned away.

"That whole conversation was so bloody embarrassing."

"Yes. I'm sorry. They meant well, but..."

"... it's not really in the spirit of things, is it. Demons getting whiplash. I've fallen from Heaven, you'd think I'd be able to cope with..."

"You sauntered vaguely downwards, if I recall correctly. Perhaps that's a little less hard on the spine."

Crowley laughed. 

"They did knock me around quite a lot," said Aziraphale after a moment. "Your... former colleagues. When I was in your body, I mean."

"So?"

"What Newt said. An initial injury, but then any bump or knock for a while after made it worse. Perhaps that's what brought this on."

Crowley sighed. "Yeah, that's probably it. A last souvenir from my time working for the legions of Hell. Perfffect." He sucked through his teeth. There was a glint of fang.

Then:

"Aziraphale. Did you mean it?"

"What?"

"That you'll… anoint me with this... unguent Anathema’s given us."

Aziraphale's smile was radiant. "Yes, absolutely, my dear chap. Anything to help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Strictly speaking, of course, the world did not end on this day either, and had in fact been repeatedly not-ending every day for the previous six thousand years. But this was a little more... emphatic.
> 
> 2\. Which had obviously been Madame Tracy's idea and purchased despite Shadwell's protests, if his repeatedly muttering, "I suppose you'll be wanting to bring mistletoe, you shameless strumpet" for over a week until she finally got the hint counts as protest, or indeed as it being Madame Tracy's idea.
> 
> 3\. Ordinarily the very concept of four disreputable eleven year olds roaming wild in his shop would have driven Aziraphale into a frenzy of anxiety. Which is why, instead of warning them off any particular areas, he told them to guard the books from any potential intruders, to read anything they wished, and above all to make sure that none of the adults forgot themselves so far as to touch a book with sticky hands. No archivist in any library in the world is more careful with a precious work of literature than a child who has permission to scold any adult who misbehaves in its presence. This was all Anathema's idea, and by the end of the evening Aziraphale was to need repeated reminders that even an angel now free of the constraints of Heavenly Law was not supposed to contemplate breaking child labour laws.
> 
> 4\. A pointed, unsurprising and to the assembled adults entirely unsubtle query about the mistletoe.
> 
> 5\. Nothing magical; those Aziraphale had locked away. But every good book is on some level a tome of great learning and power.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley had not meant immediately, and Aziraphale did in fact do the washing up and the cleaning first (and miracled into the kitchen of a local night shelter five excellent mince pies and the remaining three slices of cake). But Crowley had not really meant that night at all, and there was something about even this dear, sweet, ridiculous, angelic[1]friend of his seeing him shirtless – touching his vulnerable spine, caring to his needs – that was making him decidedly nervous.

No, if he was honest with himself (and he always, always tried to be that, whoever else he was not always honest with), it was not a question of “even” this friend, this good friend. This best of friends. It was especially this one.

It was not supposed to happen, of course. Lust was permitted, though Crowley had never quite seen the point of it without at least a connection of some sort. But love? No. Not that. Not any kind of love. Not merely forbidden but impossible.

And it was a rule that Crowley had broken nearly every day of his life on Earth, especially when you consider that compassion is a form of love. He loved okapi. He loved ducks. loved dolphins. He had loved Adam and Eve, in a slightly confused sort of way. He loved a number of the other humans he had met, from poets to prophets to profiteers, as well as that poor carpenter’s kid who was in some… _ineffable_ way also Hers.

He even still loved Her, a little. Or at least, he did now that he had begun to strongly suspect that She had nothing to do with most of the stuff he hated that had been done in Her name, and that Her only true fault had been leaving far too many decisions to Her exceedingly inadequate underlings. A fault that, he supposed, was as much part of the granting of free will as the atrocities done by humans in the name of any Gods and none. Less fault, more… (he growled at the idea) a rather _ineffable_ set of Divine choices.

He certainly loved young Warlock, and young Adam, and Pepper, and Brian, and Wensleydale. He loved Anathema, and he loved Newt, and he loved Madame Tracy and even – rather surprisingly – Shadwell. All of it was furtive, and unspoken, and definitely, **definitely** not something someone of his kind was supposed to be doing.

But to love an angel? Worse, to be in love with an angel? To feel that angel his lodestone, drawing him, orienting him within the world, the crucial other-self without whom existence was a desert? To yearn for him desperately, every day, every second of every day, even when they went years or decades or centuries without seeing one another?

Well. He had never been one to play by the rules.

Okay, no, that was not true. He had rules. But they were his rules. One of them was this: he would never, ever let himself be used to hurt his friend. And if Hell had known, had even suspected how he felt, that is what would have happened. His love for the Earth and Earthly creatures, that lingering, grudging love he still had for God… well. That would be a case for redeployment at best, holy water at worst. But a demon tempter in love with an angel could have been a weapon in Hell’s hands. They would not have punished him for it, they would have employed him. They would not have cared whether or not Aziraphale returned his feelings, not given a moment’s concern for any consideration of consent, of boundaries, of agency. A tempter should tempt, and with sufficient threats against Aziraphale’s body and soul, tempt Crowley would have done. And there was no good ending there. Tempt Aziraphale to something hedonistic, shallow, sweet? A distraction. Tempt him to something outright sinful, a betrayal or a harmful action of some kind? Watch him fall. Tempt him to a love for Crowley as pure and deep and generous as his own for him? Then they could hurt Crowley and watch an angel lose his faith with grief. And all the while, Crowley would know that he had committed the worst possible betrayal of his friend.

So, Hell could not know. And Aziraphale could not know. Friendship, yes. That could be nurtured with a fair degree of safety. The worst Crowley feared there was his own destruction. He was not, he admitted, entirely skilled at concealing his romantic feelings. Not when the mere sight of that mop of white-gold curls and those charming blue eyes dazzled him into smiles, every single damn time. But Aziraphale was naive enough, it seemed, to interpret that as friendship. Which, given his own character, was perhaps unsurprising.

But, now, here they were. Weeks after apparently gaining their freedom from the holds that Heaven and Hell had over them. They were safe – at least it seemed so. And Crowley was in pain, and confused, and starting despite himself to wonder. And Aziraphale was just… Aziraphale. Sweet, kind, soft, prim, beautiful. Perhaps a little more confident than he used to be, and, thank the Earth and all its little fishes, no longer with any tendency to tell him to go away. But still, things were uncertain. Fragile. New.

It was perhaps not the best time for unguents.

Aziraphale was also nervous, which is why he was doing the washing up and the cleaning by hand[2]. 

There had been a certain night in a church in 1941 in which he had realised, very suddenly, three very important things.

1\. Crowley was in love with him.

2\. He was in love with Crowley.

3\. If Heaven or Hell ever found out about either 1 or 2 (but especially both), they would do something _awful_ to Crowley.

Point 3 being what it was, 1 and 2 had to be treated from then on as entirely irrelevant. No, more than irrelevant. To be resisted, always, at all costs. In the service of which, Aziraphale had said some exceedingly unkind things to his friend.

But now? Well, Heaven and Hell knew more than enough for the game to be up, and the worst had happened, and they were still here. They were free. And Crowley kept accepting his invitations to dine, and they drank, and they walked, and they saw plays and films. It was... lovely. But then Crowley had begun abstractedly prodding at his neck and shoulders and shifting about even more often than he had before, and if Aziraphale had thought anything about that, it was that his friend had delightful mannerisms, and that he rather suspected that laying his own hands upon Crowley’s neck and shoulders would feel quite wonderful.

And here they were. And Aziraphale could either languish in his anxiety and guilt, or he could be a sensible angel, and a good and determined friend. And help.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. But, of course, enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.
> 
> 2\. Refusing Crowley’s help; the various guests had each in any case done a little before leaving, so there was not much left to do.


	3. Chapter 3

The pain was worse, and the whole column of his spine felt… wrong. Nauseatingly so. There were prickles in his hands, in his back, even in his feet. Crowley sat forward on the sofa, his head in his hands, glasses tossed carelessly on to the coffee table beside him. He tried to shift himself into a comfortable position. This appeared to be impossible. Then he started and yelped when Aziraphale suddenly sat beside him.

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. Though I think I may have made it worse laying the table earlier, would you believe. I knew being helpful was bad for me.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t apologise, please, you bastard. I just…” He sat up, leaned back, winced again. “I’m a demon who can’t lift heavy fucking objects. Or plates. Do you think that stuff of Anathema’s might actually work?”

“Well. We can try. Take your shirt off.”

For a moment Crowley was thoroughly startled. And nervous. And – again in the interest of full honesty – more than a tiny bit aroused. Then he shook himself, regretted that movement _enormously_ , removed his shirt as carefully as he could, and sat sideways on the sofa to give access to his back. Access that of course was needed without the impediment of his shirt. Made sense. Obviously. And Aziraphale seemed quite relaxed and cheerful.

The salve was cold going on, then warmed immediately and gloriously on contact. It smelled faintly of mint and grass and clover, and felt… like summer. Like a gentle, easing heat on his skin. And now, like Aziraphale’s hands working his tender neck muscles, his shoulders, running softly down the length of his spine. Warm, soft, enchanting hands. 

The pain was drifting away, far, far away. Time seemed to slow. There was nothing but those hands on him. And, yes, a sound like a quiet, deep moan.

That was himself. He was moaning, moaning every time Aziraphale’s hands reached his neck, moaning every time they reached the base of his spine. The pain was gone. What was left was… something else.

If the angel had heard, he gave no sign of it. Still the hands, relentlessly, up and down the muscles beside his spine, massaging the tight ridges on top of the shoulders, then up the sides of his neck. And then, suddenly, one hand gently straying to the front of his neck, brushing softly up his throat. Crowley found himself leaning frantically into the touch, blessing, crying out.

Aziraphale stopped, taking those beautiful hands away, and Crowley stifled a whimper at their loss.

“I’m so sorry. My dear friend, how can you forgive me, I...”

Crowley breathed hard, trying to regain control, then turned round. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. But there was something else too. Something dark. Something wanting.

“Angel… Aziraphale… If you apologise to me one more time I swear by all that is unholy I shall scream.”

“But I want to help, you to ease you, not...”

“Not turn me into a helpless, needy mess at your hands?”

Silence. Then:

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry? My dear fellow, I...”

“I’ve been wanting you to touch me for six thousand years. I think I got a little carried away.”

“Ah. Yes. So did I. And I’ve only been wanting to touch you – _consciously_ wanting to touch you, at least – for around eighty years. But I really should have asked before I...”

Another pause.

“The pain’s better.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Hardly there, for now at least. No tingling either.”

“Splendid! Now I come to look at you properly… turn round. Yes. Your back...” Aziraphale traced up it again, and this time Crowley let himself shiver at the touch “… seems much more… as it should be. And your shoulders too. Stretch a little? Perfect. Yes. Excellent. I’m glad. We must thank Anathema.”

His hands remained on Crowley’s shoulders. Still. Warm. And now a little firmer. Crowley felt himself trembling. And – oh Earth – now Aziraphale’s mouth was close to Crowley’s ear, and Crowley could feel the warmth of his breath. “Now, Crowley. About turning you into a helpless, needy mess.” One hand started to stroke the back of his neck again. “Is that, by any chance, something you would like?”

“I… oh _fuck_.”

“Hm?”

“Yes. _Yes_ , I…” Then, with a great effort: “No.”

Aziraphale withdrew his hands immediately. “No? Oh my dear, of course. I have no wish to...”

Crowley turned again towards him, and threw the words from his mouth as fast as he could, before he changed his mind, “Not unless you love me. Not unless this is real. Not if… not if I tempted you into this, not if...”

Aziraphale was smiling at him, and it was beyond his usual charming warmth. It was... beatific.

“I love you, Crowley. I think I fell in love with you the day we met, but I’ve known it, as I was trying to imply, from the night you rescued me in that church in the Blitz. And no, you have not tempted me into this. Unless you mean by that merely by being yourself. By being kind, and witty, and excellent company. By being beautiful. By being, always, better and freer and braver than you were supposed to be. Now,” he added. “Whether I can truly declare that my wanting to turn you into a helpless, needy mess is _real_ as such is perhaps another matter. At least in general. I love you strong, and wilful, and your own being, and indeed impressively help _ful_ at times. But right now?” The smile turned – there was no other word – wolfish. “Right now, yes, that too is real. And my desire for you is as boundless as my love, and both are infinite.” 

Crowley stared at him. He could feel his eyes pricking, and that would not do. “You… you love me,” he repeated.

“Entirely.”

“And you also want to… um. Touch me. Dominate me. Have me at your mercy?”

“Oh yes. Have you in every sense, in fact. If you would like me to.”

“Well then,” said Crowley, as casually as he could. He cleared his throat. “I love you too,” he said.

“I know. But it is so good to hear you say it.”

“I want you.”

“I know that too, at least in general. But do you want me right now, my dear? That is the question.”

“Yes. _Earth_ , yes.”

“Then lie back.”

Aziraphale guided him, tenderly, carefully. The sofa seemed suddenly even more comfortable than usual, the cushions supportive, one raised like a pillow. Safe. Crowley sighed as Aziraphale helped him into position. Arms by his sides. Legs straight out. The sofa must now be even longer than usual too, Crowley realised. It seemed to extend significantly beyond his feet.

“Now, on the downside,” Aziraphale was saying, “with your spine in this state, there is a great deal I would like to do to you right now that would do you harm and undo all our good work. On the other…” His hands stroked up Crowley’s arms, up again to his shoulders, and one again strayed with the lightest of touches on to Crowley’s throat, and held there. “You are so deliciously sensitive to every touch I give you that I think we can do a lot with what we have. Don’t you?”

Crowley moaned, nodding slightly.

“Yes, you’re right, there’s really no need for you to talk right now. Speak if you have to, if I do anything you actually don’t like. If you say ‘stop’, I will stop, and you will have done absolutely the right thing. If you need me to slow down and talk to you, please say that, and the same applies. Otherwise, you may make sounds, but no words. I’m going to see what you can tell me without them.”

Crowley nodded again, then felt a warning twinge in his neck. Instead he merely looked up into Aziraphale’s blue eyes – sweet, sparkling, and yet a little steely at this moment – and hoped that he looked suitably compliant.

“Well. I know you like my hand on your throat. That is… delectable. The feeling that I control you, I expect. Of finding yourself trusting me when you find it so hard to trust. Plus the touch itself.” He began to stroke softly up and down along Crowley’s neck, the sides, then back to the throat, along the – ha! – the Adam’s apple. Such a light touch, barely any pressure. Warmth, and a feeling of danger that was itself a kind of safety.

“Ah yes, the touch. Is it my touch you’ve been so starved for, my sweet boy? Or any touch, just mine most dearly? Something has definitely left you craving. My poor darling.” The hand on Crowley’s throat stayed put, the other began to stroke slowly down Crowley’s chest. “Ah, no, don’t tense, my dear, no matter how good it feels. You need to stay very relaxed for me. Can you do that? Yes, good, that’s right. And oh my, how does a demon have skin this soft? I think I had better…” Aziraphale dipped his head, dropping one soft kiss on Crowley’s chest, then another, and another. And then one – sweet but agonisingly brief – on Crowley’s lips.

“Oh good. I hoped that would be welcome. Now, while I would like very much to plunder your mouth ruthlessly with my tongue right now, I think I had better not put that kind of pressure on your neck. Something for us to look forward to when you’re better, perhaps.”

Crowley whimpered.

Aziraphale sat up again, and looked up and down Crowley’s body. There was an air of… quiet determination about him now that was very unfamiliar, and desperately, _desperately_ hot.

“Ah! I see you have made an effort tonight. The kind that humans usually associate with men, I see. Looking… very constrained in those trousers of yours. Oh we can definitely do something with that. Do you always make this kind, I wonder? Or do you vary? I do hope you know that I will be delighted with any effort you care to present to me. Now, I’d rather you didn’t have to move, so...”

One small miracle, and Crowley was naked. Completely naked. And panting. Earth, Aziraphale had barely touched him yet, and he was…

Aziraphale bent over him again, taking his hand.

“I know you can’t nod comfortably right now. Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no. Can you do that for me?”

One squeeze.

“Have I gone too far? Please speak if you need to.”

Two squeezes, emphatic.

“Would you like me to go on?”

One squeeze, so hard that Aziraphale squeaked. Crowley might be rapidly turning into that helpless, needy mess, but he was still Crowley. He felt a wicked smirk play over his face.

“Oh my. I am glad. And I’m even glad for that moment of rebellion.” Aziraphale whispered again in Crowley’s ear. “After all, it clearly means I have more work to do to make you as helpless and obedient as I want you to be. And I intend to enjoy doing that.”

Crowley _whined_. Aziraphale was sitting up again, and his eyes were raking Crowley’s body in a manner that was positively predatory.

“Oh, you are _exquisite_. And you have made a beautiful effort, my dear boy. One of the prettiest I have seen. And so, so hard. Even from the little touch you have had so far.” His hands ran again down Crowley’s chest, on to his belly, and then down his legs, avoiding the effort entirely.

“I could stroke you like this all night, Crowley, my beautiful darling. I could stroke you every night for ten thousand years. Give you all the touch you’ve missed over all these millenni… Relax for me, Crowley. I can see your shoulders tensing.” A hand on his chest, commanding, healing. “That’s right.” Aziraphale moved, straddling him, gazing directly down into Crowley’s eyes. Crowley met that gaze, and then found he could not look away. 

“That’s my good, sweet boy. Let’s see if you can relax more for me now. Lose yourself in my eyes for a while. Let yourself drift. Ah, you do like this, don’t you?”

It was impossible now to even think of disobeying. Aziraphale had one hand beside Crowley’s head, bracing himself, still gazing down into his eyes. The other caressed Crowley’s face, softly, gently. Then down his throat, lingering. His chest. Circling each nipple, then down, down his belly. And then. Hovering in the air, then, so close to touching Crowley’s straining hardness that he could feel the warmth from Aziraphale’s hand.

Crowley felt himself tense for a moment, then relax fully. Either Aziraphale would touch his effort or he would not. It was not in his control. Nothing was. Nothing at all. He felt the strange bliss of that filling him.

And then Aziraphale’s hand closed around his cock. There was a welcome slickness; a Miracle of Lube had apparently occurred. Crowley found himself giggling. Then the giggles were lost in fresh moans, frantic and uncontrolled, as the firm, ruthless strokes undid every last part of his will. His last thought before all thought became impossible was that one day Aziraphale would tell him when and how[1] he had learned to do _that_ to a cock.

Aziraphale’s eyes were blue like speedwell, like cornflowers. Like noonday skies reflected in the lake at St James’s Park. Crowley dived into the lake. Dived upwards, which made no sense, except that it did. Lost himself in water, in petals. In the centre of the lake it was dark. But not the dark of Hell or fear. A dark that was calm and loving and safe. It was home. And a voice was there that was far away and everywhere, and it was saying, “Yes, my darling boy, that’s right. Give in to what’s happening. You are safe. You are loved. You are doing so well. So good. Yes. Well done. Now. Come for me.”

The blue and the dark consumed him, tumbled him in their depths. He was drowning. He was nowhere. But he was safe, he was Aziraphale’s, and the voice kept him tethered, and the shaking waves of pleasure at last began to recede. 

“That’s right,” the voice was saying, “good, so good, yes.” And then, with a tone that sounded almost awestruck: “Oh by Heaven and Earth, Crowley, I think you might be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Arms were rushing around him. The eyes were no longer holding him. Aziraphale was kissing his face, softly, sweetly, passionately. 

Crowley began to cry. “Slow… Slow...” he managed.

Aziraphale held still for a moment, then shifted position again, taking Crowley’s hand, almost shyly.

“Oh my. Talk to me, Crowley. Was this too much?”

“It was… _Fuck_. Aziraphale. No.” He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to manage speech with a mouth that seemed not to be working. “Not too much. Unless glory is too much. It was everything.”

Aziraphale exhaled, hard.

“I just… I need water.”

“Yes, of course.”

A miracle. A glass of water in Crowley’s shaking hand. Aziraphale, God love him[2], guiding the hand, lending strength. 

“Would you like to sit up?”

“Please.”

Arms around him again, guiding him to sitting, leaning him back in the sofa. A footstool that Crowley could have sworn did not exist three seconds ago. The water startlingly, gloriously cold.

“Crowley, you’re weeping. Would you like to talk about that?”

A pause, then:

“Six thousand years.”

“Yes.”

“Yearning.”

“Yes.”

“And you too?”

“Yes. Though I was a fool. I didn’t know until...”

“1941, yes.” Beat. “It wasn’t safe before.”

“No. No, it was not.”

“But now?”

“Now it is. So we can be together.”

And Aziraphale made it sound that simple. Perhaps because it was.

“I love you, angel. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, my dear, darling Crowley.”

“Kiss me?”

The kiss was tender. There were tears mixed in it.

“Do you have a bed?”

“I can make one. Would you like to be ravished in it? Or to ravish me?”

“Soon. Please. Fuck, yes. Both. Lots. But tonight… tonight, I need...”

“Tonight, you need to bathe, and to rest. Of course. Pain and yearning are tiring, the relief of them even more so. Come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. And not least, although less grammatically, _who_.
> 
> 2\. Which She did. She must. And if She did not, then one day She and Crowley would be having _words_.


	4. Chapter 4

The bed had an orthopaedic mattress, and dark grey cotton duvet cover that was significantly more in Crowley’s taste than Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale hoped Crowley liked it, and that his restless mind would quiet long enough so that he might sleep in it. Demons, like angels, might not in general need sleep, but Crowley, as he had noted a number of times before, tended to break the rules.

Crowley’s hair was wet and tousled from the bath, his body clothed in (swiftly miracled) pyjamas. Black silk pyjamas with little embroidered snakes on. With smiley faces. Aziraphale was rather proud of them, and Crowley’s protests seemed to be covering for a great deal of amused delight. He looked... adorable. Aziraphale helped him into bed and jumped up to sit beside him.

“Talk to me, angel?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“What else did Newt tell you? About whiplash, I mean. When you asked him.”

“When I…?”

Crowley laughed softly. “I know you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale grinned at him, conceding. “I did.” His face fell a little. “It may take a while. If you were human, we could get you physiotherapy. Scans to check that nothing in your spine is damaged. So on. It’s of course a little harder for one of us.”

Crowley bit his lip. He looked at his hands.

“But you will get there. Relaxation, gentle exercise – you need to be careful about lifting things, obviously, but movement will help overall. Plenty of Anathema’s salve. And… if you would like me to… I can help?”

Crowley smiled at him, with one of those warm, unexpected, radiant smiles that, to Aziraphale, made him look more angelic than the highest archangels of Heaven.

“Yes. Please, angel. I would like that.”

He reached out his hand. Aziraphale took it.

“And we will…” Crowley’s voice shook a little. “We will still be together in the morning?”

“Forever and ever.” He kissed Crowley softly on the lips, then once on the forehead. “Sleep well.”


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally...

Aziraphale disliked writing e-mails, or indeed using any communication technology much later than the first printing presses. But he e-mailed Anathema and Newt that night.

“Thank you for attending my little Yuletide gathering,” he began, “and thank you so much for your help with Crowley’s condition. The salve appears to be exactly what he needed. Anathema, my dear, I should very much like to obtain more of it; if I might prevail upon you to provide us with some more (I shall of course pay you whatever you think right), or indeed giving me the recipe so I can make it if that is more convenient, I should be most grateful.

“Newt, your advice too will I think prove invaluable. Bless you for it. Bless you both.

“Love, and Blessings of the Season in whichever way you choose to celebrate it,

“Aziraphale, Formerly Principality of the Eastern Gate

“P.S. About that other matter. You were right. He is asleep in my bed. I made a bed for him to be asleep in. I have never been so happy. Not even the first time I tasted honey-cakes. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, excellent people! I hope you enjoyed this; I certainly loved writing it.
> 
> At some point I will learn how to do footnotes properly on here, but my html is rusty and has never been my strongest suit.
> 
> I may write some more in this same timeline at some point, but this story will stand alone either way. :-)


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